


No One Knows

by druscilla



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Getting Together, Insomnia, M/M, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Tour Bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/druscilla/pseuds/druscilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete and Patrick both know what's going on but neither one of them knows what to do about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Knows

Pete couldn't sleep sometimes. A lot of the time. It was a problem. It was a problem for Pete, for the rest of them, and especially for Patrick. First it was the van and Patrick would wake up to that weird feeling of the hair standing on the back of his neck. He'd slowly open his blue eyes and Pete would be watching him, headphones in, lips moving silently to the words while his gaze traced lines down Patrick's face. He didn't even seem phased by it. The first time, Patrick had squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the blanket over his head. The second time, he simply didn't bother to open his eyes.

After that, it was the apartment and Pete would be sitting on the foot of his bed, still listening to headphones and sometimes scribbling in a notebook. It was harder to stare at Patrick's face in the dark, so his eyes took in the rise and fall of his chest as he drew deep breaths. He heard the tiny sleep noises escape from the back of the boy's throat and the larger noises when he stretched his legs and his feet bumped against Pete.

"You could try sleeping pills or something, you know."

"My mom won't let me."

It sounded like a strange reply coming from the lips of a twenty-something living in his own apartment, but Patrick didn't argue with him. He wouldn't have wanted to fight with Pete's mom either.

"Last time you fell asleep leaning against the wall."

"I'll be fine," Pete murmured softly. "Go back to sleep, 'Trick." He put his earphones back in and hit play, trying to ignore the feeling of Patrick's eyes on _him_.

Getting a tour bus presented new problems. Pete couldn't sit up cross-legged in the bunk and he couldn't look at Patrick if he was sitting on the ground peering in. The first night, Patrick had opened his eyes to a distressed sound and found Pete trying to curl against the foot of his bunk, nearly strangling himself with his headphones in the process.

"You're not going to be able to write like that," Patrick whispered.

Pete looked up in slight alarm, not realizing he'd woken the younger boy. "I'm . . . I wasn't. Just wanted to lay . . . down." The last word sounded flat, like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing and didn't even know how to begin to explain it.

Patrick yawned, slipping his sock clad foot out from under the blanket to poke Pete sleepily in the stomach. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing either. "If you just want to lay down, then come up here."

Pete blinked twice.

Patrick groaned in annoyance and pushed himself closer to the wall to make room. "Pe-ete." He was tired and his voice cracked slightly, maybe breaking the spell that had come over the other boy because he slowly started to move. He untwisted his body, having to slide himself over Patrick to take the space that had been offered. He probably should have twisted around, but it was too late now. His face was in the blonde hair and his knees were bent to match Patrick's and the younger boy didn't resist when Pete's arms came up automatically to wrap against his chest.

Pete didn't know what they were doing, but he could feel Patrick's heartbeat under his hands and Patrick could feel the slightly shaky breath when Pete's lips brushed his neck as he spoke. "Thanks."

Patrick didn't know what they were doing, either, what he was doing. There was a boy spooning him in his bunk. Furthermore, Pete was spooning him in his bunk, twisting fingers in his shirt slightly without realizing it and tickling his neck when he breathed. Pete didn't have his headphones in yet, but he seemed calmer anyway. 

"Don't worry about it," Patrick mumbled even though he knew that's what they were both doing at that exact moment. Pete would be lying there trying to figure out what any of it meant because he seemed to believe Patrick had all the answers. Patrick would be lying there trying to figure out what he had meant because he didn't have a clue.

In the morning, Pete was in his own bunk sleeping and Patrick watched him really hard for a minute before shutting the curtain on his bunk. He caught two faces turning away as he turned back and said nothing, his cheeks burning red as he flipped through the cupboards for something to distract himself.

That night Pete was back in Patrick's bunk again, this time pushing him over unceremonioiusly and slipping in behind him. His headphones were playing and Patrick could hear the faint background noises of whatever Pete was using as a lullaby. This time Pete took Patrick's hands and twisted them with his over the boy's chest. Neither one of them said a word as Patrick tried to ignore the strange fluttering in his stomach. In the morning, Pete was in his own bunk again. 

It was the same routine to the point that Patrick couldn't sleep on the one night Pete didn't push him over and wrap arms around his chest. We was sitting up at seven am, rubbing his tired eyes and staring hard at the can of Red Bull it was entirely too early to be drinking, when Pete got up and sat across from him. "You look like me," he whispered, almost joking.

Patrick flicked an errant hand dismissively at the statement.

"You could have gotten me, you know," Pete continued in a low voice.

"I didn't want to wake you up," Patrick mumbled after a pause.

Pete shrugged, reaching out and popping the aluminum top on the can, draining half of it and passing the remainder to Patrick. "Wasn't sleeping," he said softly after he swallowed.

"Then why didn't you . . ." The younger boy's voice trailed off there, unsure of exactly how to word it. _'Why didn't you sleep with me? Come to my bed? Hold me?'_

"Don't want to bother you." Pete sounded too young when he said it and he pulled his knees up to his chest, looking even younger. He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute, refusing to look at Patrick after he had opened them. 

"You don't bother me, Pete," the younger offered in a soft voice and Pete did turn to look at him with an amused grin. "Well, not when you do _that_ ," Patrick added, a small laugh tumbling from his lips.

Pete's smile softened into something more gentle and Patrick's laugh died on his lips when the older boy stood up and held his hand out. "Come on," he said. "You could probably still sleep."

"You can't," Patrick protested quietly as he was lead back to the bunks. "You just drank half a can of--"

"I'll be fine. It doesn't matter," Pete said, pushing him into the bunk. Patrick tried not to think too much about it as he laid down and Pete's arms came up around his chest. His body must have been used to it because his eyelids were already heavy and he was asleep within five minutes, Pete's breath making music as it tickled his ear.

The next night they had a day off and a hotel room and Pete pushed his way up next to Patrick in the hallway to ask him for his spare room key under his breath. The younger boy's eyes furrowed together in some emotion between confusion and pity as he handed the plastic card over and watched it disappear into Pete's back pocket. "We could order pizza though," he said out loud.

Simultaneous groans sounded from the other band members who all exchanged eye rolls and glances as Pete launched into a defense of the food, badly articulated and punctuated with swear words and the ocassional whine. He was still babbling as he followed Patrick into his room, not even bothering to open the door to his own.

"I really don't care about pizza, Pete," Patrick interrupted as he tossed his bag on one bed and threw himself face first onto the other. He didn't say anything when he felt the bed dip down, felt his hand being lifted up as Pete took it gently in his own. The younger boy's head turned to the side as he watched silently, the older boy examining his hand closely, running fingertips along his nails and the lines of his palm. It was too much. Patrick didn't know what to do.

Pete's lips were dry and he licked them, gently letting Patrick's hand fall and leaning forward to put his face in his hands. He didn't know what to do either.

"I might shower," Patrick tried, his voice sounding too raspy as it left his throat. "You . . . you could, too."

Pete nodded, his hands falling back into his own lap, but he didn't move, even as Patrick sat up. He was still sitting on the boy's bed when the bathroom door clicked behind him and the water started. He was gone when Patrick came out. Patrick's discarded shirt was gone too.

Pete was shoved in the corner of his hotel bathroom, his jeans pressed below his knees and his belt buckle scraping the tile everytime his hips jerked. One hand was moving rapidly up and down his length while the other held Patrick's shirt to his face, smothering himself with the scent and biting against it to cover the sound of his own moans. He didn't want to hear them, didn't want to think about it, didn't want to consider all the implications of everything he was doing in the dark, hiding from God and himself.

Pete bit down extra hard on the material as he felt the familiar dip in his stomach, spilling over his own hand and dripping on the inside of his thighs. He was going to have to shower now, even if he hadn't before. He shuffled over to the sink and turned it on, washing his hands and kicking his jeans the rest of the way off. Before he stepped into the shower, he rummaged in his bag for clean clothes and tucked Patrick's shirt into the inside pocket. Hopefully he wasn't planning on wearing it for the rest of the tour.

That night, Patrick came over to Pete's room to ask if he wanted to watch a movie. He was already wearing pajama pants and an oversize hoodie, socks but no shoes and his hat was off. Pete wanted to kiss him but he didn't know how so he just pushed the pile of clothes off his bed onto the floor to make room for Patrick. They used the remote to order a bad action movie and sat under the covers with their thighs pressed together.

At some point during the movie, Pete's crossed arm reached it's fingers up to tangle in Patrick's hoodie. At some point during the next few scenes, Patrick noticed and let his fingers touch Pete's knee under the blanket. Then, as the credits began to roll, Pete let his head drop to Patrick's shoulder. "Do I have to get up and follow you to your room or can you just stay here?"

The lump Patrick had been swallowing against for most of the movie became a stone and dropped into the pit of his stomach, ripples echoing off his bones. His hand was still on Pete's knee. "I can stay," he whispered, voice a little too high-pitched. He didn't know what else to say. 

It was too early for either of them to be considering bed, but Pete turned the bedside light off anyway and wrapped his arms around Patrick from behind as the younger boy slowly shifted to his side. Neither one of them were tired and Patrick counted the slats in the blinds over and over until Pete's hands slipping lower, two fingers from one reaching down to lightly trace over the curve of his belly. Patrick's breath caught in his throat and he actually choked on it, coughing and sitting up, sputtering as he did.

The flat of Pete's hand smacked him between the shoulder blades a few time before it turned into rubbing circles. Patrick wanted to scream, but he was too scared. He wanted to rub, but he was pretty sure the blanket would catch in his feet and he would trip before he made it out the door. He wanted Pete to kiss him, but he was pretty sure that was never going to happen. He threw himself face first into the pillow and yanked the blankets over his head. 

Pete was at a loss. Patrick usually had very logical, obvious reasons for any sort of freak out. He reached up to stroke the boy's back through the covers. "'Trick?" he whispered. "You don't . . . you don't have to stay."

The reply was too mumbled for Pete to make any of it out and he slowly reached for the top of the blanket, pulling it down until Patrick's head and the top of his shoulders were exposed. "You can go, 'Trick," he said again.

"You want me to go?" Patrick was asking the pillow, his voice still muffled.

Pete's eyebrows furrowed together and he shook his head, his hand tentatively reaching out to stroke Patrick's hair. It was soft under his fingers from having been washed early. It smelled a little bit like apple and Pete vaguely remembered Patrick grabbing some girl's left-behind shampoo from his shower before they left this time. _('You don't think she'll be back for this, right, Pete? Dibs.')_

"I don't ever want you to go," Pete said softly, honestly, his heart stopping for a moment as he did. He continued stroking his fingers, trying way too hard to make sure the exact pressure was the same as it had been before. Patrick would think that was just him being oversentimental and clingy, right? He wouldn't read into it, would he?

Patrick didn't say anything and Pete's breathing started to even out again. Slowly, his hand stopped stroking Patrick's hair and Pete settled onto his back, turning to look at the boy who had turned his head to avoid looking at Pete. Neither one of them said a word for the rest of the night, but when Patrick woke up Pete's hand was tangled with his in the middle of the bed.

"Have you seen my yellow shirt?" Patrick asked about a week later on the bus. Pete was still sleeping with him at night, arms wrapped around his chest, but this was daytime and Pete was currently inhaling fistfuls of Cheetos. "My Matches one?"

Pete refrained from choking and giving himself away, chewing slowly as he tried to push away the nasty twisting feeling in his stomach. "No, why?" he lied, looking straight in Patrick's eyes as he did, trying to shrug his shoulders slightly.

"Can't find it," the younger boy said dimissively, clearly believing it and walking away. Pete did choke on his next handful of food and swapped Patrick's shirt out for a blue one in his dirty clothes bag when he wasn't looking.

That night, when Pete was pressed alone in the corner of his bunk, boxers pressed down and biting the blue shirt to keep from making noise, he could have sworn he smelled some other cologne he didn't recognize coming from it. Pete could immediately see Patrick and some nameless, faceless shadow slamming against the bathroom stall of a venue, Patrick's eyes overbright and laughing as he slid to his knees to start undoing jeans. Pete saw his own tattoo under the denim, saw Patrick's eyes staring up at him through eyelashes as his lips parted, a tongue reaching out to dart over them.

Pete came, _hard_ , his teeth clenching down tight enough to hurt a small noise escaping the back of his throat nonetheless. It wouldn't be the first time any of them had overheard such noises, but he still felt dirty, like they could see his thoughts on film reel projected out. It was the first time Pete had come over picturing Patrick like that. Usually just the idea of the boy was enough without even taking it to sexual extremes. On some level, Pete knew that probably wasn't normal, but he ignored it. The shirt got tucked into his pillowcase and he went to the back lounge to try and cool off and ignore the laughing in the back of his head.

He didn't have to look up when he heard the footsteps a few minutes later. He knew it was Patrick even before the couch dipped and the younger boy sat next to him, pulling his feet up and pressing his shoulder against Pete's. "I can't sleep unless you're there," he whispered, voice small and scared. "What's that mean when tour's over, Pete?"

Pete didn't say anything for a minute. He thought about it. He thought about Patrick sleeping over at his parents' house, years before, both twisting in the twin bed to keep from knocking the other out. He thought about the last time, when Patrick had finally moved out and Pete had slept over at his house nearly every night until tour started again, to the point of Patrick's (now ex) girlfriend jokingly calling them a threesome.

Pete thought about going home to an empty bed and dragging himself around like a zombie, catching a few hours of sleep in the afternoon and making his mom worry he was on drugs. He shivered and Patrick reached out to squeeze his hand.

"I just get scared sometimes," Pete said, wincing the second the words left his mouth. They didn't make sense.

But they did to Patrick.

"Me, too," the younger boy whispered. "And dumb. I feel dumb."

"You're so smart."

"You're easily impressed."

Pete laughed, a real laugh, his lips curling into a smile and his eyes lighting up. He twisted his fingers through Patrick's and they sat there for a few moments, enjoying the nice warm feeling and wondering if they had to say anything else or if they could just sit there in the back of the bus forever and be perfect.

"I can't tell if it's different because you're a boy or because you're you," Pete said finally, reaching up to rub at his eyes. A yawn split his lips apart and he felt okay. 

"It's not because I'm a boy," Patrick mumbled quietly. That much he knew. He knew how boys felt and how feeling for boys felt and he knew it wasn't like that.

Pete turned his head to catch the younger boy's eyes with his for the briefest second. "D'you think it's love then?"

Patrick hesitated. His mouth was dry and he felt scared again. There wasn't a blanket to yank over his head this time. "I think . . . I think, yeah?" He ducked his head down and squeezed his eyes shut, swearing at himself inside his head. 

Lips pressed against his cheek and Patrick's eyes opened, his head turning and his lips catching Pete's at the corner of his mouth. They both froze for a moment, too close for comfort, eyes locked. It went from ice to fire in a moment, Pete practically launching himself at Patrick, too much teeth and overexcitement for the first few kisses to even be momentarily enjoyable. Then they were finding each other's mouths and curves, hands hooking into hips and hair and lips tangling together as they both gasped for breath and scrambled to touch every inch of each other they could over their clothes.

Neither one of them remembered falling asleep, but Patrick woke up on the couch with his arm around Pete, still nuzzled into his side, hair messed up and eyes open, watching Patrick cover a yawn with his hand.

"Andy took a picture with your phone," Pete said, smiling, laying his head on Patrick's chest. "They're inside."

"You could have gone inside."

Pete shook his head, reaching out to twist their hands together. "No. I want to stay with you." It was soft and their kiss was soft and when Patrick helped Pete up so they could change and rejoin the land of the living, that was soft. Pete holding Patrick's hand under the table at catering was soft and Patrick kissing Pete's cheek before they went onstage was soft. 

That night was hard, Pete's face to Patrick's chest while he shook from imagined nightmares. He didn't fall asleep until late and Patrick slept until much much later. 

"Do you still think it's love?" Pete asked when they were climbing off the bus.

"It is," Patrick said simply, giving Pete's hand a single squeeze before they disappeared inside, the door making a click behind them while Pete tangled his fingers in the hood of Patrick's jacket.


End file.
